( ...of course. He speaks of poison, she attempts to drink it. Like the countless nameless faces that have crossed his path, she thinks his wounds hers to cleanse, to heal, to make whole and hale and stitched.

It stings and repels him. He drags himself steps more, opening the door to her quarters, begging her leave, biding her entrance. )

Excess touch repulses. Words sting.

( It is not — so simple as attempt made, words failed. He is not... unkindly or imperious. The mind may command, but cannot fully shift this. Years of Cloud Recesses' finest rearing have inured a sophisticated, gentle allergy towards all that is baseless connection, shallow affinity. )

My people favour restraint.